The moment the vehicle computer flashed the alert, Cheng Ye did not move.
He only stared at the line:
Monitoring update: At 04:55:33, a decommissioned weather satellite 500 kilometers above detected an energy pulse. Frequency: 3.1415926 GHz. Duration: 0.3 seconds. Source: Area A‑7.
The timeline matched.
The signal cut off at 04:58:17. This return occurred three minutes earlier.
That meant six minutes before Lin Wanqiu's broadcast ended, her device had already synchronized with outer space.
It was not passive transmission. It was… triggered.
He did not tap confirm. He did not forward it.
The vehicle was deathly quiet, only the low hum of the engine, like a taut string.
The sealed box on the passenger seat held the computer. The pothos rested quietly in a special cultivation chamber — its leaves still turned 0.3 degrees, untouched by anyone.
Cheng Ye put the last piece of sugar-free gum into his mouth.
Mint burst upward, with a faint metallic edge. He chewed slowly, as if waiting for someone to speak.
No one did.
By the time the convoy left the edge of the Gobi, dawn had broken.
Morning fog pressed along the horizon. In the distance, the blades of wind turbines stood motionless.
"Chief, the data center is pressing for progress," the driver said quietly. "They say the highest‑authority channel is open. We can upload the raw waveform anytime."
"We don't upload," Cheng Ye said.
"But…"
"I said: we don't upload." His voice was low, but each word landed firmly. "Before all data is finalized, it only goes into encrypted black boxes. No relay nodes. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
He closed his eyes and tapped his fingers twice lightly on his knee.
A habit from military academy — whenever facing uncategorizable intelligence, he repeated this motion.
Not anxiety. Not hesitation.
A reminder: do not skip steps.
One wrong move, and the entire board meant nothing.
Underground Data Center · Decoding Room 3
Seven hours later.
Cheng Ye stood before the quantum simulation array.
Before him lay a topological map, constantly collapsing and rebuilding.
No text, no audio waveforms — only nested geometric structures, like an infinitely recursive maze.
When the first‑layer decoding result came out, the tech team thought the system had crashed.
They fed in standard semantic analysis protocols.
The output was a series of dynamic fractal patterns.
Fitting with mathematical models failed.
Switching to biological neural network simulation paths still failed.
Only when they activated the military's top‑clearance Non‑Linear Semantic Analysis Protocol did they barely grasp a faint outline.
"This isn't information," one researcher whispered.
"It's more like… a thinking process itself."
No one replied.
Everyone saw the same phenomenon:
every time they unlocked one encryption layer, a new one formed instantly, with complexity rising exponentially.
This was not man‑made cipher, nor machine‑generated obfuscation.
It was a nearly living logical entity.
It was evolving.
Cheng Ye stared at the timestamp in the bottom right corner: 07:13:44.
Seven hours, thirteen minutes, forty‑four seconds had passed since data import.
The system still ran, but the progress bar froze at:
Layer Identification: 17th layer.
"Try spacetime alignment again," he said.
The technician nodded and pulled up the high‑altitude energy pulse data from the vehicle recorder.
Frequency, phase, duration — all perfectly matched the pulse code cached in the computer.
They were not just from the same source.
They were two sides of the same event: one captured on the ground, one recorded in space.
"False positive ruled out," someone muttered.
Cheng Ye walked to the main console and pulled up the signal path tracking map.
A red line shot straight upward from Area A‑7,
through the ionosphere,
through the thermosphere,
and vanished outside the near‑Earth orbit.
No refraction, no reflection, no relay.
No bounce, no amplifier assistance.
Like a beam of light piercing directly into deep space.
"Civilian Wi‑Fi module max power: 1 watt," another engineer mumbled.
"This strength can't even reach the next building. How did it reach 500 kilometers up?"
Cheng Ye said nothing.
He knew the problem was not transmission distance.
It was information density.
What sent a chill down his spine was another truth:
the signal not only went out — it received a response.
And the content of that response lay hidden inside this 17‑layer, self‑rebuilding topological maze.
Command Analysis Room · Isolated Deduplication Terminal
Lights dimmed to minimum. The whole room glowed only with cold blue screen light.
Cheng Ye sat in the farthest corner, facing an offline terminal cut off from the network.
All data had been desensitized three times, leaving only core parameters.
He needed no team discussion, no superior instructions.
Only pure logical deduction — strip emotion, block interference, and ask one question:
Why her?
He listed three basic facts:
1. The device showed no modification. Motherboard was commercial civilian model. Wireless module unupgraded.
2. Broadcast content: technical analysis of bamboo‑slip accounting. Plain language, no metaphors or encryption.
3. Signal path: straight up and down, no relay stations or hidden vehicles.
Only one conclusion:
either the device itself was abnormal, or the user was.
He first ruled out external hijacking.
He pulled the global electromagnetic log database, searching all abnormal activity within 300 kilometers of Area A‑7.
Result: empty.
No jump node activation signals.
No micro‑satellite deployment traces.
No residual characteristics of directed high‑energy particle beam irradiation.
If a third party had intervened, there would at least be "construction marks."
What happened was like someone piercing the Earth's core with a plastic spoon.
Impossible. Yet it happened.
He turned to the second possibility:
the information did not come from the device. It came from the person.
Lin Wanqiu.
The woman in modified hanfu, who spoke slightly fast and always paused for two seconds after finishing a key point.
What had she said during the stream?
- "Bamboo fiber's molecular arrangement has natural tensile advantages."
- "Carving depth affects information retention; quantitative standards existed as early as the Warring States Period."
- "Scroll assembly is easier to search, but slips are better for long‑term preservation."
All common sense.
Yet this common sense had been converted by some unknown mechanism into a high‑dimensional information packet and successfully broadcast into space.
Was it what she said?
Or… the way she said it?
Cheng Ye thought of the scrap of map in the drawer.
Old paper, sharp creases — clearly unfolded and checked often.
She left calmly, even remembered to close the window.
An ordinary popular science streamer, doing a broadcast no one watched in the middle of nowhere,
and still reviewing her process coldly afterward.
Too steady.
Steady not like improvisation, but like daily training.
He opened his personal note and wrote two hypotheses:
- Hypothesis 1: The streaming device was modified by unknown matter, becoming a passive information amplifier.
- Hypothesis 2: The information did not come from the device, but from the user — Lin Wanqiu unconsciously released a cognitive field, captured and broadcast by the equipment.
The first was easier to accept. Physical evidence existed: abnormal crystal in the computer, directional deviation of the pothos.
Find the manipulator, and follow the trail.
But the second… was far more dangerous.
Because it meant the problem was not with the tool.
It was with the human being.
If true, Lin Wanqiu was no ordinary streamer.
She was an undefined information source.
She needed no understanding, no active operation.
Simply by speaking, she automatically triggered a cross‑dimensional transmission mechanism.
At that thought, his fingers paused.
He deleted the explanation behind Hypothesis 1, leaving only one sentence:
Prioritize investigation of streamer Lin Wanqiu and her equipment usage. Do not rule out unintentional intermediary.
This was not a conclusion.
It was a warning.
He knew that once he submitted this judgment, the entire project would reclassify —
from "suspicious signal investigation" to "potential civilization contact event."
Involved agencies would no longer be only national security.
It would alert the Joint Observation Bureau, the Outer Space Defense Department, even the International Council.
But he also knew: if he buried it now and an uncontrollable leak followed, the responsibility would be his alone.
He stared at the document for ten seconds, then pressed save.
File name:
Gray Area Incident · Preliminary Analysis · Internal Memorandum
At the end, he added a handwritten note:
Classify as "Gray Area Incident": neither hostile invasion nor natural phenomenon. Temporarily defined as "precursor to technological singularity." Prioritize investigation of streamer Lin Wanqiu and her equipment usage. Do not rule out unintentional intermediary.
End of the Corridor · Private Terminal
Lights off.
Only this one terminal still glowed.
Cheng Ye stood up, pulled out the USB drive, and slipped it into his inner pocket.
The report was not uploaded to the system, no printed copies.
For now, it existed only on this encrypted storage chip.
He checked the electronic clock on the wall: 12:47.
Thirty‑five hours and thirteen minutes remained until the deadline to submit the threat level assessment.
Enough time?
No.
But he could delay no longer.
He turned toward the elevator.
Footsteps echoed in the empty corridor. Each step firm, as if fearing the floor might collapse.
His left hand unconsciously rubbed the mechanical watch face, fingertips brushing the engraving:
Time will prove everything.
His father's things never lied.
But this time, he was not sure what to believe.
The elevator doors opened. Cold air rushed out.
He stepped in and pressed B2 parking.
The metal doors slid shut, reflecting his blurry silhouette.
When only a thin slit remained, he suddenly froze and glanced back at the dark terminal.
The screen was black. Nothing.
But he knew:
some things had already begun to change.
Not just the signal.
The rules themselves.
He faced forward again and pressed the close button.
The elevator began to descend.
When he stepped out of the underground garage, sunlight slanted across the entrance tiles.
A black SUV waited. The driver saluted. He nodded.
Sitting inside, he pulled out his phone, opened contacts, and found the number labeled:
Northwest Supply Point Logistics Contact.
His finger hovered over the dial button for two seconds.
Then he pressed it.
The call connected quickly.
"Hello, who's speaking?" A gentle female voice came through.
"I'm looking for Lin Wanqiu," he said.
"I have a few questions to confirm in person regarding the streaming equipment she used yesterday."